She didn’t know the rabbit died in the spare bedroom underneath the bed. She just knew it didn’t hop through the house with its big white feet to eat the food she dumped in a cereal bowl on the kitchen floor, too weak to stoop and pick up the bits that scattered across linoleum. She thought the rabbit’s feet were too big, and she assumed it had gotten out and ran away.

He was a man, probably. Now he’s a body. Warped and drowned and bronzed and flattened. He’d lived and died. For an age he breathed beneath watery peat but now lay mangled under museum lights.